


Put A Band-Aid On It

by Savageandwise



Series: You Know My Name (Look Up The Number) [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1980, M/M, McLennon, Post Japan, Work of fiction, not my take on reality, telephone call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: Post Japanese jail stint, Paul calls John ready to start over.





	Put A Band-Aid On It

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to turn my last drabble into a series of telephone calls. Here's my next instalment. If you have a prompt, canon only please, let me know in comments or on @savageandwise on Tumblr. 
> 
> The title is from John's song Losing You on double fantasy:
> 
> "So what the hell am I supposed to do?  
> Just put a band-aid on it?  
> And stop the bleeding now..."
> 
> Let me know how you like it in a comment. I'm insecure about John at the moment. Actually I'm generally insecure. I'm a mess. Haha. Thank you ♡

When John finally gets a word in he can feel Paul's contention like a backhand to the face. It makes his skin sting and rattles his teeth.

“You're not listening. If this taught me anything—” Paul perseveres.

Paul spent nine days in a Japanese jail. Karma, it seems finally caught up with him. McCartney caught carrying half a pound of marijuana in his suitcase. The Germans have a word for what John should be feeling: Schadenfreude. But instead he didn't sleep a wink until Paul was back on English soil.

“—what has it taught you, babe? Not to carry illegal substances through fucking customs,” John spits. It's easier to be angry. Easier than giving in, allowing himself to be seduced by the scene Paul has set. Paul is a painter. A weaver of tales. That's why long before the Maharishi, before Yoko, Paul was his guru.

“John,” he wheedles.

“You're so fucking selfish is what you are.”

“I'm selfish? I didn't even know it was in there. I took the fall,” Paul argues.

John rolls his eyes. “Of course you did. That's what you do, isn't it? Take it for the team.”

“I didn't ring to talk about jail, John. I want to talk about us.”

Us. A magic word. He imagines days spent in bed, Paul naked, strumming on his guitar. His absent chanting of possible lyrics while composing, eyebrows half raised until he hits upon a combination John finds pleasing. That same look on his face when he touches him. A question—no—a challenge. 

“I can't do this,” John says, blind panic stabbing him between the eyes. They've never been good at talking about it. What makes him think it will be any different now?

“Don't you ever think about how it was?” Paul asks hesitantly.

“No,” John lies. “What's the point?”

He allows himself small tastes daily. Memories rich as chocolate cake. Paul's breath escalating against his ear, announcing his release like a fanfare. The prickle of his eyelashes against John's cheek. The way he says his name after, like those four letters have an entirely different meaning in Paul's mouth: darling, lover, love.

“You're not as good as you think you are, you know?” Paul says, his tone a mix of amusement and pique.

“Not that good at what?” John asks.

“Lying.”

John doesn't deny it. Paul isn't promising the things he needs. He isn't promising anything. He doesn't deserve the truth.

“You like to talk. But you're not really saying anything,” John accuses him.

“Bit rich, coming from you," Paul says, more dejected than hurtful.

“What are you suggesting exactly?” John asks warily.

“I want us to write together, maybe perform. I want to see you,” Paul says, his words hurtling over each other like acrobats.

“What are you—?” John asks haltingly.

Paul lets out a nervous laugh. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes, god damn it! Spell it out or leave it the fuck alone,” John shouts down the line, he looks at the cigarette trembling in his hand and slams it into the nearby ashtray.

There’s a long pause on the other end, so long he's afraid Paul has hung up. He can hear Paul's shaky sigh, like he's mustering the words to explain him himself and beats him to the punch. “I don't know if I could… if I could do… that again, Paul.”

“I just… I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to hear… I thought of you… in there. I didn't… I don't have a plan,” Paul stutters. “I don't have a solution for you. I just know… I want…”

All at once he feels a wave of tenderness for his old friend. He can still feel that first awkward embrace, Paul's lips colliding with his jaw, his hands splayed against his back. When he bridged the gap between them, Paul's sigh of relief struck such a note a lust in him it reverberates still.

“Well. You know, Sean turns five this year,” John says slowly.

“Yeah. He does.” Paul sounds very grateful, his voice very high and thin.

“Five is a good age,” John continues.

“The best,” Paul agrees.

“Five is… we could see what happens...” he murmurs. 

There's a sharp explosion of breath on Paul's end. “Oh, John. Oh… Do you mean it?”

He might live to regret it. He might end up with his heart crushed, his spirit broken, no Yoko to save him. He thinks back to the Woolton fete. How he stood, the future hanging in the balance, before a smooth-faced lad holding his guitar upside down.

“I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @Whereitwillgo for reading and encouraging.


End file.
